Let There Be Light
by RoseLight
Summary: Celebrating Candlemass February 2 Better to light one little candle than to curse the darkness. HODOWE Groundhog's Day Challenge.


Let There Be Light

"Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be ." Robert Browning.

His obituary made the front page of the Times. Kuryakin could hardly ignore it, nor Her. But his visit would need to be personal, intimate. After all the hoopla died down, and everyone went home. After she was left alone with her memories in the empty house.

"Saint" Steven Sonnet, as Illya remembered him. Illya had resented him, then grew to respect him. (The Holy Hostage Affair). Still, it was Sonnet's wife Madeleine who held the Russian's interest after all these years. It's not that they deliberately tried to avoid one another, just that their lives had gone in different directions. It would be wrong not to pay her a consolation call.

Madeleine had endured nearly two months of widowhood and was ready to scratch her way out of her skin. She missed Steven in particular, and the state of marriage in general. Madeleine missed the giving and receiving of love. She missed taking care of someone, and the precious presence of a kindred spirit knit into her life

The phone call from Kuryakin was not quite expected, but genuinely welcome.

Madeleine opened the door to him graciously, like a good hostess. "Dear Illya," she whispered his name, and it still made music on her tongue. "Thank you for coming. I-well, just thank you." She looked like a flickering shadow.

As Illya stepped inside the modest suburban house, his spy senses tingled and he leaped immediately on alert. A quick sweep of his gaze proved there was nothing unusual. In fact it was not what was present, but what was lacking. The stillness. The silence. It was almost sinister.

Madeleine had always lived within a cocoon of music. She was always humming or playing or singing or whistling or moving gracefully to the music in her own head.

There was no music in these walls. And graceful Madeleine moved mechanically, awkwardly, without rhythm.

"I spose I should give you the tour, like a good hostess. But there's really nothing to see. The kids are grown and gone. Steven's gone. I just shut all those doors and live in the guest room. I'm a guest in my own house," she piped a high uneasy little laugh. "or maybe I'm the ghost." She felt his vigilant eyes getting too close to the well of her pain. Madeleine pasted on a bright tinny smile. "Whoever would have imagined that emptiness could echo?" she asked, as if it were a scientific query.

"I'm very sorry, Madeleine. I know you loved him, and he you. It's a rare enough state these days, and you were lucky to have found each other," Kuryakin addressed formally.

"Blessed," she corrected him gently. "Steven and I were blessed to find each other. And you're right—we had a rare life together. It was a good death—if there can be such a thing. He collapsed at his pulpit. Quick and clean. No suffering—for him, anyway. It seems that's my job now." She was merely 55, and another twenty years without her life's partner just seemed an unbearable burden.

"Don't your church members visit?" he asked , ready to be skeptical

"Oh, yes, of course," she said quickly. "Of course, they've been very kind. But it's the kind of kind that walks out the door with them. Grief is contagious, you know"

He bit back his words. It would be too simple to confront her with the truth: you are not the only one who is alone. Instead Kuryakin's gaze swept the cozy parlor. "There's dust on your cello," he observed.

"I'm still supposed to play," sighed Madeleine, as if it were an effort. "It's good exercise for the arthritis." She wiggled her fingers at him.

"And the children…?" he inquired politely.

She pointed to two photos on the west wall. "Sasha is teaching at an inner-city middle school. It's almost as dangerous as your work. He's been in riots, broken up gang fights, got slashed trying to stop a suicide, got robbed twice—"

"They call that 'teaching'?"

She shook her head. "I know. But he's committed to his kids. Like his father, determined to make the world a better place. Like you," she added. "And Suzanne is studying in Avignon. She volunteered to stay with me awhile, but I told her to scat back to France and continue her work. After all, she has a life to live."

"And so do you," he encouraged softly.

She redirected his attention as slickly as a magician. "And what of you? Still with the Network?" His dangerous job had come between them years ago, and cost whatever chance they'd had at a serious relationship. (Daydream Believer Affair).

"Yes, but in an advisory capacity now. After 40, enforcement agents are pulled from the field. And it has been a considerable while since 40," he reminded her .

"I'm glad. And the fact that you're alive to advise, I attribute to the power of prayer."

Illya scoffed. "Now, Madeleine—you know I don't pray."

"But I do." She let that sink in a moment. "I think you're awfully brave, to face the stuff you've seen." She shuddered for a moment, remembering the blood and brains that had splattered on her in Kuryakin's apartment.

"And I think you're braver, to believe in something that you cannot see. You've had a rich life. I have no photos in my wallet to show you." He shrugged sadly, an almost discontented admission. And it hurt Madeleine, to imagine she might have been the one to change his life's direction. "Linya—" he rushed the words forward although he imagined his timing might be considered inappropriate. " We've both had changes in our lives. But perhaps the changes could make us better companions….than we might have been in younger days….".

She finally brought herself to touch him, to brush the hair from his forehead. Siberian Sunshine, she'd once dubbed the color. Now, it was streaked with what she would describe as Russian Winter White. "I...it's so soon. I can't make any plans now, any promises, any changes…not yet. I'm sorry…" her words, if she had any more, were caught on the jag of a sob. "It's been a long time."

"Then let's not wait any longer than necessary."

His insistence surprised her. "Why Mr. Kuryakin, I don't remember you being so impulsive…"

"Not at all. I've been considering this for some years now."

Madeleine attempted to keep pace with his lighter tone. "When does the offer expire?"

"Let's hope the product will remain fresh for some time yet." Kuryakin returned to his serious self. "I understand that you may not be able to commit to such a radical change in your future at this moment. But perhaps you could –contemplate—growing old together."

"But it's been so long," she repeated wistfully. "We've changed."

"And I eagerly anticipate getting to know the woman you've become." Kuryakin's breath was stopped short by a fond familiar aroma. "Is that your strudel?"

"I've been cooking like mad," she confessed. "I don't know why—there's nobody to eat it—" she sniffed.

"I skipped lunch," he lied helpfully.

The reminder of his appreciation of her Grandmere's strudel recipe gave her a wide, genuine smile. "And tea, of course. I should have offered you tea! Oh, Illya, please, may I ?" The idea of caring for him brought her to life.

The spice tea was as aromatic as he remembered and as sweet on his tongue. And on her tongue, as he recalled her long-ago her kisses. As she leaned over him to refill his cup, he breathed in the scent of her hair. More sophisticated now than the wildflower soap he remembered. Yes, they had both grown and changed.

But the strudel was as delicious as his memory.

"I remember you trying to coach me through Kuryakin 101," she said. "I failed."

"Yes, I recall you dropped out. A remedial class with extensive tutoring may be required. And then graduate work. I may even recommend you for a doctorate in concentrated studies. It could take years…" His lips and his eyebrows were smiling.

Madeleine was smiling. She was smiling! Like a brilliant dawn. Like sun sparkling on waves. Like stars sprinkled on a black velvet sky. His Madeleine smiled. At him.

Illya took both her hands and pronounced solemnly. "Madeleine Merrie Devereux Sonnet: You brought light when I was in a dark place. Even after you went away, a spark of your light was always there, when I needed it. Now, perhaps I can be the light in your dark place. I'd like to try."

Silence. Holy, compelling silence.

"No, Illya," Madeleine looked at her feet, shook her head regretfully. His breathing stopped. Then she raised her eyes to his. "I think we should be the light for each other."

Once a week Kuryakin made the drive to Waybridge. Once a week he thumbed through Madeleine's LP collection and selected an album for her to play once a day, every day. She had eclectic taste so there was a great variety: Bach, Beatles, Bluegrass, Brubeck.

"A prescription, if you will?" she teased.

"Certainly. I Am a doctor," he said sternly. "And I intend to bring music back to your life." His tone brooked no dissent. "After all, tis better to light one little candle than to curse the darkness."

Madeleine cocked her head. "I also don't remember you being so optimistic."

The Russian downright grinned. "Imagine how much fun we're going to have getting reacquainted." He nosed her sleeve up her arm and nuzzled his way along the path to her shoulder.

She withdrew, rolled down her sleeve and hid the arm behind her back self-consciously. "Age spots…" she whispered the two ugly words.

"Nonsense," her Doctor diagnosed. "Freckles. And I intend to kiss every one and then connect the dots," he said playfully.

"—and I especially do not remember you being so flirty."

"I was young," he groused. "Now I am properly motivated."

And once a week, Madeleine tidied up the parlour, brushed her hair, and made strudel. There were baby steps in her recovery. She began to wear make-up and choose her wardrobe more carefully. First, when she knew he was coming, and then the happiness seemed to spill over into her whole week. She began to plan well-balanced meals, first for his visits, and then her appetite seemed to return. She oiled up her bicycle and rode to the library and the park.

It had been six weeks since she had been under her Doctor's care. Madeleine talked more and sang more and served more and felt –well, positively resurrected.

It was an Illya evening and she rejoiced. He had brought along his guitar, and she had been practicing on the piano and at her cello. After all, a girl wanted to have supple fingers. They had been playing together, like the old days in her Grandmere's apartment.

"That's a secret smile…" the former agent charged.

She blushed. "Oh, I was just thinking…that after all these years, we still play in tune."

He agreed. "Yes, we play well together." He paused. "I have these tickets…."

She was packed in twenty minutes and the way he drove, they made the airport with forty-five minutes to spare.

"You still won't tell me where we're going?"

"Does it matter?"

She did not need to consider her answer. " Not at all." She snuggled against him. His arm wound around her as if he would never let her go.

The couple was glowing, and became the stewardesses's hot topic. "Isn't that cute? Must be a second honeymoon."

"Golly, I'd like to look like that someday…"

"All wrapped up in each other…"

# # # # #

"But it's four A.M," she whispered, out of respect for the ungodly hour.

"No worries. It's all arranged."

And that is how Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin and Madeleine Merrie Devereux Sonnet came to stand beneath the beautiful arched windows of the Luxembourg chapel. It was a simple and private ceremony, but a most meaningful service.

The bride approached the altar from the left, carrying a white candle. The groom came from the right, a slender white taper in his steady hands.

"Our bright shining candles are a sign of divine splendor, expelling the dark shadows to make the universe radiant in the brilliance of eternal light," intoned the chaplain. * "Candlemass signifies hope." He gestured to the couple and they simultaneously used their candles to light the thick candle presented on the altar. Then he joined their hands together.

"Your hands are no longer empty," he said, in that solemn tone reserved for the most holy of measures. "Two are better than one, for they have good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift the other up; but woe to him who is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up…If two lie together they are warm, but how can one be warm alone?"**

Illya tugged at the ever-present gold band on his finger, and lovingly transferred it to his wife's hand. "Let there be light," he whispered in her ear.

Above them, the windows shone with the fresh baby- pink of dawn.

Finis

*Sophronius of Jerusalem, 63 AD

** Ecclesiastes 5:9-11


End file.
